Contemplating Eragon
by Principessa Dell'Opera
Summary: Their lives were never the same after he appeared.
1. Chapter 1: Arya

Arya

It was a few days after the siege of Feinster, and so many emotions were coursing through her at such a speed it made her head spin. The fear of another Shade, the relief that she and Eragon had defeated him before he could wreak havoc like Durza, the elation that they had won, and the heart-breaking sorrow and grief that they had lost Oromis and Glaedr, the last of the Old Order.

She wouldn't cry again. Tears were a sign of weakness, and nothing about her was weak, at least externally. But she had cried into Eragon's shoulder. It was because she was so shocked and so grief-stricken that primal instincts had taken over her, and like a human woman, she sobbed and mourned, and clung to one thing that could give her comfort. And that had been Eragon.

When she had, she almost had believed it had been Faölin who was holding her. But to her knowledge, Faölin had never cried. And Eragon had cried.

He had cried harder than she, and even in her grief, she had realized that even for a child, Eragon loved with more power than even elves possessed. He loved Oromis and Glaedr, even if they had frustrated him, and he mourned them as if they had been his parents, his flesh and blood.

It had surprised her. They had been the elves' greatest secret and hope, and naturally, she mourned, but his grief was far greater than hers.

Arya gently shook her head. It wouldn't do to dwell on what had past. It was how men had been driven mad. Eragon and Saphira were the last free dragon and Rider, and now the hope of Alagaësia rested on them alone.

Almost automatically, the run back to the Varden crawled back into her mind, especially the night that the spirits had visited them, and they had really talked together.

_"Did you love him?"_ Eragon's question ran through Arya's mind.

_"Yes, Eragon, I loved him. I loved him to the extent where I would have gladly given my life for his. We were planning to create a child, to show the world the strength of our love. But alas, circumstances were against us, and I shall never bear Faölin's child."_ Her ready answer rang between her ears, mocking her.

Her eyes filled with the tears she hadn't shed over Faölin's death. She allowed only a few to spill, but she quickly dried her eyes, and rid herself of tear streaks. Her thoughts turned to Eragon himself.

He mourned Oromis and Glaedr. He had a brave face, but with Saphira he was unusually silent and solemn, and when she was on her midnight walks, she heard him weeping in his tent. Her heart went out to him, sharing his grief, but unknown to him.

When she thought of him, she had conflicting emotions. On one hand, he was a child, constantly getting himself deep in peril and needing help, but on the other hand he had grown wise and strong, a man by human standards.

But she was over a century old! How could she love someone not even a fourth her age? But the heart rarely listens to reason. She knew what falling in love was. She wasn't a foolish human maiden who swooned and sighed over the one she desired. However, she was falling in love with Eragon, no matter the arguments she posed to her heart. And for the moment, it would be wise to not speak of it yet.

Arya was sitting on the ramparts of Feinster, watching as the blood-red sun set in the west. Nasuada was planning on moving the Varden out in a few days, and Arya was gathering her strength. The struggle with the Shade and an entire battalion had drained her energy much more than she had anticipated. These days of rest were needed.

Her ears pricked as she heard someone climb the ramparts and sit beside her, silent. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw who she suspected: Eragon. He turned to smile at her, and then looked out at the sunset, sitting in companionable silence.

He hadn't pressed his suite in a long time. Perhaps he had forgotten. _No_, she chided herself. _He's just content to stay this way_. And so was she.

They sat that way, in comfortable silence, until the velvet night sky shone with the bright diamonds that were stars.


	2. Chapter 2: Glaedr

**Originally, **_**Contemplating Eragon**_** was supposed to be a oneshot, but I got several requests to continue it. So without further ado…**

Glaedr

What did it matter that Alagaësia was about to be torn asunder, when he, Glaedr, last of the Old Order, was alone, trapped forever more in his own heart, without Oromis, partner-of-mind-and-heart? Never again would he fly free over the land as he once did before Galbatorix rose to power, never again would he hunt light-hooved-deer in the forest, never again would he fly with students-Eragon-and-Saphira and watch them grow together, never again would there be what seemed to be endless days with his one hope.

Oh, but he was proud. He was proud of his students, of their accomplishments, of their determination and passion. He was proud indeed.

But what good was his pride for them if he was no more? And Oromis, what would he do without him? Would Oromis wait for him somewhere? Or was he gone forever, lost in the void that men called death?

Glaedr retreated even deeper within himself. He could not shed tears as Arya did. He could not bellow his pain as Saphira did. He could not channel it into power as Eragon did. He was alone, with his sorrow, wishing that he could have perished with Oromis.

There was nothing now. Nothing but the minds of Eragon and Saphira. Sometimes the mind of Arya, or the mind of Nasuada, or the mind of cousin-of-Eragon, or the mind of spell-caster-elf. Always minds swirled around him, eager and hesitant hoping he would touch their minds.

He wouldn't. He wasn't a god to give reverence to. He was a dragon, now an Elundarí, to be honored, not worshipped. He understood the difference, even if Saphira did not.

Saphira…the last, the most beautiful dragon of their race. Thorn and Shruikan were slaves, never to be free of their bonds to Galbatorix.

Glaedr was disturbed from his thoughts by the feeling of Eragon's mind. Glaedr recoiled; there were no words, no images for him to share with his student, he only desired to be left undisturbed in his mourning.

Eragon's mind retreated, only a bit. Glaedr ignored him, and continued to be silent, grieving.

_Master…_ the title rang through Glaedr's heart. He reared in anger at the child that dared to intrude.

_Be gone, hatchling, if you are wise and wish to remain unscathed,_ Glaedr growled at Eragon.

Meekly, Eragon replied, _As you wish, Master._ He withdrew.

Glaedr returned to his thoughts. He was surprised to find there not mourning for Oromis, rather, thoughts concerning the new Rider.

_Eragon…_Glaedr's voice rumbled through his heart, making it echo against his other thoughts. Stubborn-hot-headed-Eragon, the only Rider in Alagaësia with his own free will. He wasn't going to lie to himself: if Eragon wasn't so important, there were plenty of times when strict discipline would have been enforced to ensure his respect. However, Oromis had found Eragon promising, and Glaedr would have had to have been a hatchling to disagree. There was no other that Saphira could have chosen. He was made to be a king's downfall.

And yet…he was a boy, a child! Lost, confused, and made into a man before his time. How could an entire nation hope on just a boy?

A mind drifted in and out of his consciousness, so faint he almost didn't react, until he felt the confusion, the newly blooming emotions, and the hope of Arya-elf-princess-ambassador.

Glaedr acknowledged her, and she withdrew, leaving a memory with him. It was of Eragon, risking more than his life for her on countless occasions. However, what was also in the memory was Eragon himself.

It was Eragon grieving, long, and deeply for the loss of his teachers. Glaedr was surprised that Eragon would care as much as he did. The weight of the sorrow was almost equal to Glaedr's own. Almost.

Glaedr coiled inside his heart, pondering Eragon. The more he thought, the clearer it was to him, he who was so wise: there was no one greater than Eragon to take up the Old Order, and restore the Riders to Alagaësia.

Glaedr reached out to Eragon's mind, brushing aside the fortifications.

_Master…_ the word hung in Glaedr's mind, reminding him.

_Eragon, when legacies are called upon to begin anew, none are prepared. Yet you are the worthiest to take up the mantle of the Riders, and once again, bring peace to Alagaësia. _Glaedr began to withdraw, sensing the way Eragon had been humbled.

_Thank you, Master_, Eragon answered, grief weighting his words. It reopened the wounds in Glaedr's heart.

Glaedr withdrew, closing himself within himself. Yes, he believed what he told Eragon. He was certain Eragon would be the one.

He let the ebb and flow of his sadness carry him away from Alagaësia, if only for a few moments. He had to take care, lest it forever sweep him away. But he had an anchor that would keep him tied forever to what he knew: the mind of Eragon.

…_Thank you, Master…_


	3. Chapter 3: Nasuada

Nasuada

She sat straight in her chair—her makeshift throne—and listened intently to Jörmundur's report on supplies needed to advance onto Belatona. It was tedious, and the list long. Many things were superfluous, and did not need to be brought, but there were even more things that needed to be taken.

Some were accessible in Feinster, some they had themselves. But much was left to guesswork. Where would they get the salve that healers spread on sword wounds? Some of the herbs needed to make the salve were far north of where they were stationed now. And if they stayed longer in this city, Galbatorix would surely send Murtagh and Thorn to lay waste to them all.

She sighed heavily and massaged her temples. Jörmundur had been talking for the past two and a half hours, with much unneeded explanation and many flourishes. She longed for someone to tell her the naked truth without all these unnecessary words.

"My Lady?" Jörmundur paused and looked at her concerned. "Are you feeling quite well?"

"I am well, thank you Jörmundur, however I am in need of some respite. If you could leave the list on the table" she gestured to a well used desk "I will look at it as time and matters allow. Never fear, this will be given priority."

Jörmundur bowed, placed his list of supplies on the table, and left. The Nighthawks let him pass without incident. When he was out of sight, she sat back, and rubbed her eyes tiredly. Last night, like every other night, was a late night, with much pacing, much thinking, much calculating, and much doubting. However she seemed to the people of the Varden, she also was human, and was susceptible to the same self-doubt and detrimental thoughts as all others, though they were greater for she led practically a nation of people, all dependent on her and her leadership and her decisions.

As she lowered her hands, she saw her bandages. Again she resisted the urge to scratch the slowly healing wounds. The more they healed and the more medicine Angela put on her, the worse the urge became.

_I did it for the Varden. I chose this,_ she scolded herself.

_Yes, but did the Varden chose you?_ a voice mocked her in her head.

"Ma'am?" Farica had materialized with a midday meal and some clean linens to dress the wounds.

She nodded mutely and ate mindlessly as Farica washed her arms, and rewrapped them. She didn't even flinch as some scabs cracked and opened again.

"Will that be all, Ma'am?" Farica asks.

"Yes, Farica." She dismisses the maid with a nod.

Alone in the room, she wanders to the table and looks at the work she has yet to do. No matter how late she worked, the tasks were never truly done. Always the threats, the fear, the need, the want, and the anger. She was alone in her task, with no respite, no thanks, no choice.

_Too young. I was a child. Who were they to ask a child to take this responsibility after the death of her father? _She thought spitefully. She would never reveal her thoughts to anyone, but they were there. Yes, she resented her position, but in light of what had happened, who else was there to take the office?

As per usual, her shoulders slumped as she arrived at the same conclusion as every other time. _Nasuada, they chose you because they thought you would be a weak woman, a puppet, something to manipulate. But see how you've proved them wrong? As you've prevailed in their prejudice, you shall prevail over Galbatorix._

A knock sounded at the door, and Nar Garzhvog entered, baring his throat. "Lady Nightstalker, Firesword wishes an audience."

It took a moment for her to remember that was how they addressed Eragon, as they addressed her as Lady Nightstalker.

"His audience is granted."

Eragon entered, looking paler and wearier than she would have liked but nonetheless, healthy.

"Lady Nasuada," he said, bowing with the grace the elves had given him. Once again, she was struck with how young Eragon truly was. But was she not very young herself? Nearing twenty?

"Yes, Eragon?" she asked, not unkindly.

"I am here to inquire about the plans for moving onto Belatona," he stated, standing straight and proud. Nasuada saw a flash of blue: his elven sword, Brisingr.

"Plans are proceeding, although it may be a longer while yet before we take leave of Feinster. There are several matters that need to be addressed before the Varden can continue on," she answered, casting a sidelong glance at the table which held the matters she needed to attend to.

Eragon nodded briskly, and bowed again. He turned to leave, but before he could, she asked a question she had been burning to know.

"How fares your teacher?"

Grief flashed across Eragon's face and was gone before she had a moment to understand it. "He is grieving, Lady. The loss of his Rider has dealt him a cruel blow. A part of him has gone forever."

She was silent a long time. "Very well, Eragon, you may go." He bowed, and left, but not before she heard a sharp intake of air as the door closed behind him.

_Eragon…_he was nearly three years younger than she. And yet…and yet he became a Dragon Rider, even before he became a man. Her responsibilities seemed inconsequential compared to the weight he carried. The hope of a nation, of the people, of the races, of the future, all was his to carry and his to bear alone, aside from Saphira.

His courage was tried, his resolve stiffened, his skills exposed, his intelligence expanded. He was a powerful enemy, a powerful ally, and a powerful warrior.

But who here, besides the entire town of Carvahall and Saphira, knew the Eragon that was not the Rider, nor the farmboy? Who knew him as a person? Who could stand up and rightfully claim himself Eragon's friend?

_We are alike in more aspects than one_, she found herself thinking, surprising herself. It was true. Their childhoods were marked by tragic losses early in life, and their adulthood rushed too early because they were called to duty before they were ready. And their positions in life left them alone at the top of the chain of events, a lonely perch for two people whose fate was thrust upon them.

No matter that she was his leigelord, and he her subject, she knew she had a true friend in the man that was Eragon. A kindred spirit.

With these thoughts, she turned to the work waiting for her. If Eragon could suffer and endure, then she must not let them down.


End file.
